


a gentleman's price [DISCONTINUED]

by orphan_account



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Canon-Typical Elias Bastardry, Dickensian porn, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Forced Feminization, Grey-Asexual Jon, Group Sex, Humiliation, Jonathan Sims/Elias Bouchard (side), M/M, Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas (side), Martin Blackwood/Simon Fairchild (side), Martin is intoxicatingly beautiful and everyone wants him, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Slavery, Voyeurism, an actual bodice ripper au, in which Jon inadvertently joins a Ye Olde Sex Club, intermittent deliberately gross sex, late victorian era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 12:06:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22716460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: [DISCONTINUED] Jonathan Sims is a young architect eager to make a name for himself throughout London. When wealthy bureaucrat Elias Bouchard takes an interest in his work and hires him for a series of projects, Jon is eager to ingratiate himself, hoping to take advantage of his many connections. After becoming a part of Elias's innermost circle, Jon discovers his pretty spouse, as well as Elias's penchant for sharing him with his closest confidantes. [DISCONTINUED]
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Elias Bouchard, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 63
Kudos: 166





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> See end of chapter for notes/content warnings.

It was a brisk, late-winter's day when Jonathan Sims had his chance encounter with the esteemed Mr. Bouchard. 

After nearly two arduous years, construction had concluded at last on the second location for Leitner & Robinson's. Freshly out of his pupilage and eager to make a name for himself as an architect, Jon's first true clients had been the result of the Barker family's lasting friendship with the late Mr. Robinson. Mr. Leitner had long spoken of his ambitions to expand his services from bookselling to lending, and had been scouting out potential locations for a library when Jon was expected to return to London from his tour of Europe. 

He was still tanned from the Italian sun when Mr. Barker facilitated their meeting at the races two years ago. Overlooking the track from a private box, Jon and Leitner discussed permits and building materials. A contract had been struck before the sun had even begun to set. 

It was on the day of the building's completion that Jon arrived to take in the fruits of his labor. He had not been expecting to interrupt a visit by an esteemed friend of Leitner's; striding into the entryway of the new library, Jon was greeted by the sight of Mr. Leitner laughing joyously with another gentleman at his side. 

Leitner's friend appeared to be in his early fifties, with a neatly-combed head of silver-blond hair and a clean shaven face. He wore what was quite possibly the most immaculately tailored frock coat that Jon had ever seen, and it was clear by his manner of dress that he was no common man.

Leitner introduced the gentleman as Elias Bouchard, a minister for the Board of Trade. Mr. Bouchard, with a laugh, introduced himself in apparent correction as an overpaid bureaucrat. He was quick to shake Jon's hand, smiling at him with a gracious kindness that he would have never expected from a man of such status. 

"I'm rather impressed by the work you've done for Jurgen. I was not expecting such a design by the hand of someone so young," Elias said to him, admiration heavy in his voice. 

"You flatter me. I'm only just starting out, and Mr. Leitner has done well to curtail my over-ambition through numerous requests for revision," Jon offered with a nervous laugh. 

A gentle, fond smile played across the minister's terribly handsome face. "If this is the quality that you're capable of under such scrutiny, I'd love to see what you could do with more freedom of vision."

When Elias suggested that Jon visit his home for a venture in inspiration, it took all of his strength not to collapse on the spot. 

Over the spring and through the summer, Jon became a frequent visitor to Elias's place of residence: a beautiful stone country manor sat upon acres of sprawling woodland. He had expected their talks to adhere strictly along the lines of business but was surprised when Elias conversed with him like an old friend on matters of art, music, and politics. It wasn't long before Jon likened Elias to a peer, and not long after that when he was invited to a garden party to be hosted on the manor's grounds. 

Elias assured Jon that many of his wealthy attending guests would be eager to make their acquaintance with such a young, considerable talent. When the noon of the gathering arrived, Jon was more nervous than he could bear. 

Arriving by carriage, Jon was promptly shown to the formal garden by an attending servant—a tall, curiously handsome man who spoke little. It was there that Elias was receiving the guests with all the graciousness that he had come to expect of the older man. Events were already well under way: a band entertained with fine music and the liveliest of attendees engaged in tennis and croquet. Men and women more inclined to socializing in leisure did so in basket chairs beneath the shade of the ancient oaks. 

An hour or so in, they say down for a lunch of sandwiches, salad, charlottes and champagne—and that was when she caught his eye. When Elias emerged at the head of the garden table, he did so with a young lady on his arm, and her beauty was unlike anything Jon had ever once beheld. 

Demurely she stood, in a white and powder blue gown of lace and satin, with brass-blonde curls piled atop her head beneath a straw bonnet embellished with ribbons and florals. She had a lovely pale face kissed by a dusting of freckles, and she regarded the guests shyly with sleepy eyes the color of blue-brown pansies, her exquisite mouth soft and flush like rumpled rose petals. 

It was then that her gaze met Jon's from across the garden. He looked away, suddenly breathless, and tried (but surely failed) to act natural. 

In all of their meetings, Elias had never once mentioned having a wife, but surely a man of his age and wealth was married—and of course, to the loveliest woman imaginable. Was she truly his wife? She could be nothing else with the way she was draped against him, and Jon could conceive of no worse way to destroy his budding career than to be caught ogling the bride of a minister. 

Not only this, he had studied the holy book's teachings with rigor in his youth. He knew the words burned into his mind and beaten bloody into his knuckles. _'Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbour's.'_ — Exodus 20:17. _'Lust not after her beauty in thine heart; neither let her take thee with her eyelids.'_ — Proverbs 6:25. _'But whoso committeth adultery with a woman lacketh understanding: he that doeth it destroyeth his own soul.'_ — Proverbs 6:32.

For the remainder of the event, Jon did his best to focus on pleasantries with the other guests. As the day turned into evening and the party reached its conclusion, he knew he was walking away with numerous prospective clients, and thus the affair could be marked a personal success. Even so, as he sat alone in the carriage on his return to the city, he couldn't stop himself from recalling the unnamed beauty who had threatened to consume every ounce of his attention that day. He couldn't help but find it curious how she had spoken to no one, how Elias had seemed to offer her no introduction, and how she hadn't smiled even once the entire day. 

It was when the warm summer had faded into the crisp, cool breeze of autumn that Elias and Jon began at last to truly discuss business. Elias was interested in a series of projects to be conducted on his manor and grounds; he was certain that Jon was the only man for the job, and assured him that he would be compensated quite handsomely. In celebration of their negotiations, Elias was determined to hold a small, intimate gathering in Jon's honor, with only his dearest associates. 

He arrived the evening of the event in his best clothes. Escorted inside by the tall, curiously handsome servant he'd become so accustomed to, he was given a warm welcome by the two other guests: an elderly gentleman, Simon Fairchild, and Peter Lukas, a more rugged-looking gentleman who seemed closer in age to Elias. 

Together, the four men partook in the manor's grand hall of a four course dinner à la russe. Their feast began with julienne soup and fillet of sole with oysters, followed by a main dish of roast fowl served with potatoes, carrots, baked bread, and claret. For dessert was blancmange accompanied by imported fruits and champagne. 

Afterwards, they filed into the smoking room for cigars and brandy. The dim lighting of the table lamps lent the already cozy room a warm glow. Jon could just make out the features of the room: tripartite walls with a golden, geometric fill and acanthus leaf frieze were complimented by grand windows adorned with heavy, emerald velvet curtains. 

More than pleasantly buzzed by the claret and champagne foisted on him at dinner, Jon navigated clumsily behind the burr walnut coffee table and slumped down into the large couch; with a carved, dark mahogany back and upholstery of red and gold silk damask, it was surely the nicest thing he'd ever sat upon in his life. Peter and Simon followed, and he found himself sandwiched between the two men. 

When the brandy had been poured and the cigars were cut, it was Simon who asked a question that struck Jon as odd. 

"Is it about time for the entertainment, then?" The elderly man chuckled, turning the glass in his palm.

"I think so, friends," Elias announced, standing from his seat. 

Squinting, Jon looked quizzically back and forth between the three men. "What entertainment?" He asked with hesitation. 

Slowly, Elias approached him, speaking as he did. "Well, Jon, I quite like you. In a short matter of time, you've become very dear to me. Thus, I've arranged for you to enjoy something rather special."

Jon was already flushed a vivid scarlet from the intensity of his praise when Elias leaned over him, gently brushing against him as he did, to pull back the tapestry on the wall behind them. When Jon craned his head back to look, a pull lever mounted on the wall had been revealed. It was an odd thing, he thought: how it had been concealed, how it was separate from the other servants' pull lever in plain sight, and how distinct this hidden lever was in its lack of embellishment. 

Silently, Elias pulled on the lever three times in quick succession. The men said nothing, but Jon saw how Peter smirked and how Simon's brows raised with amusement as he hummed; it made him nervous. When Elias returned to his seat, the men lit their cigars and continued as if nothing happened, but Jon had the nagging feeling that they were waiting for something. 

Idle conversation came to a halt as loud, scuffling movement and voices sounded from the hall just outside of the door. Jon froze in his seat, startled. The door swung open. 

"—fully capable of _walking_, you beast!" A young man's voice spat, his words gaining further clarity with the increased proximity. 

The young man was shoved harshly into the room by a large, near-monstrous looking man, who loomed just behind him. He fell forward onto the Persian carpet in a tangle of elegant, pale limbs and brass-blond curls. 

In the chaos, Jon didn't notice that Elias had stood from his seat, thus the minister seemed to suddenly manifest at the young man's side. Elias offered him his hand; the young man proceeded to swat it away like a pest. 

"I was asleep, you ass," the young man hissed.

As he peeled himself up from the carpet, it was then that Jon realized his near nudity, save for the lace nightgown that he wore. He came to a stand, glaring venomously at Elias with blue-brown eyes, his exquisite mouth wrought in tension. 

Jon went breathless as recognition washed over him: it was the beauty from the garden party that stood before him. 

She was a he, his stunned mind repeated, struggling to accept it. Jon looked to Elias, who had clutched his previously-offered hand to his chest. Something like amusement played on the older gentleman's features. "Behave yourself, Martin. We have company," Elias scolded. 

He turned then to the beast of a man blocking the door. "I think that will be all, Mr. Hopworth." Silently, the addressed man vacated the smoking room's threshold, shutting the door behind him. 

Jon's observation was interrupted by an aggrieved sigh. "You're all pissed, aren't you?" Martin asked as he idly brushed off his nightgown, making no effort to conceal his contempt. 

Elias walked behind Martin, placing his hands intimately on his shoulders. "An astute finding. You should realize, then, that you have entertaining to do," he said. As Elias began to nudge the beauty in his direction, Jon took a sharp breath. 

"I'd like you to give my dear friend, Mr. Sims, your warmest welcome."

For the first time that evening, their eyes met, and if Martin recognized him at all, he didn't show it insofar as Jon could see. He stepped closer, seeming to appraise him as he did, and Jon tried to resist looking him over by casting his gaze downward. Unable then to avoid the sight of the beautiful bare feet striding across the carpet, Jon couldn't help but notice the raw, red ligature mark encircling his right ankle. 

He came closer and closer, until he stood just inside of Jon's parted thighs. The side of Martin's naked leg brushed against the inside of his knee, and it was only on reflex that Jon recoiled. Eyes shooting upward, he thought to offer an apology for the contact, but the pretty sneer looking down on him rendered him silent. 

With deliberation, Martin bit down on his lower lip. "He's not as ugly as the lot of you, at least."

Slowly, Martin bent forward and down until their eyes were at equal level. With the quick grace of a fawn, he extricated the glass of brandy that had been clutched in Jon’s grasp and—without any pause—swigged all that remained of its amber brown contents. 

Martin didn't bother to look as he passed off the empty glass to the nearest person (who happened to be Simon). "Make yourself useful," he said, his voice like ice. 

It must have been the alcohol that caused the gentleman to respond with a bark of laughter rather than offense. Under his breath, Simon said something that Jon couldn't understand as he set the emptied glass aside, but his amusement was clear. 

When the beauty dropped to his knees between his legs, Jon suddenly forgot to breath. Slim fingers smoothed over the fabric of his trousers, squeezing the inside of his thighs, and though his mouth opened to protest, he choked on his own words. 

"This isn't—I, I really don't—" 

"Now now, Jonathan," Elias started from the other side of the room as he poured himself a fresh glass of brandy. "There's no need to be shy. It's your special night with us. Partake of our gracious hospitality." He drank, looking up from his glass with smiling eyes. 

Jon's breath hitched as a nimble, teasing finger began to trace the outline of his cock through his trousers. Instantly, he felt himself begin to stiffen from the touch. 

"You like that, hm?" Martin cooed, pressing the pad of his finger against what he knew was the tip of Jon's cock. Although his voice was soft and sweet, his features were sharp with focus.

"You're a rare talent, he has little choice. Take good care of him," Elias said. 

Jon let out a distressed cry as Martin began to unbutton his trousers. He shifted in his seat, wanting to stand, wishing to escape. Through the buzz of the drink, he couldn't tell if he was frozen in fear or if the gentleman sat on either side of him were helping to keep him there. He was preparing to protest again when his cock was freed from the confines of his finery, the air slightly chill against his erection. 

Martin dragged a slender finger once down the length of his shaft. Jon bit his lip. 

"Not bad, Sims," he could hear Peter say flatly from his right. 

"What do you think, _Mrs_. Bouchard?" Simon asked from the left as he cut himself another cigar. 

Martin hummed boredly. "Decent?" 

From the corner of his eye, Jon could see Peter drag a hand down his face as he snickered.

Jon then watched as the beauty looked up to him deliberately, pointedly meeting his gaze. "It's a good looking cock, sure. Better he know how to use it," he said. Jon swore he saw the corners of his lips twitch upward. 

Simon gave Jon's shoulder a friendly rub. "We'll find out, hm?" 

Martin's hand wrapped around the base of his cock, giving him a quick jerk before he leaned in and spat on the head, slicking the wetness down the length of his shaft. Jon let out a gasp, watching helplessly as the pretty hand worked him slowly with seemingly no destination in mind. 

It was all more than he could handle, he thought—and then Martin leaned forward again, lavishing his cock with his lips and tongue. Soft little breaths escaped him as he laved Jon, kissing and licking along the underside, and he throbbed painfully at his touch. When Martin began to tongue the slit at the very tip, he whimpered pathetically, his hips canting up against his will from the pleasure. 

Then, he took Jon into his mouth—the sort of act he'd only heard vague gossip about from his peers. The inside of his mouth was hot and velvety, and his cheeks hollowed as he sucked, lips red and swollen around Jon’s girth as he bobbed up and down. 

He was close, he knew, and it was all too much. Jon could feel the muscles in his abdomen contracting as his hips bucked into the beauty's affections. He'd never wanted it like this before, never needed to come so badly before in his entire life. 

"Don't let him finish," he heard Elias warn. 

Jon's stomach sank as Martin's mouth came off of him with a wet popping sound. Bereft of the pretty mouth, his embarrassment did nothing to prevent him from letting out a pitiful, pleading whine. 

"Get to the main event," Peter pushed, rowdy from drink. 

Martin crawled up from the floor into Jon's lap, straddling his thighs. Their faces were so close that Jon could feel his breath against his skin. Slowly, Martin lifted the hem of his nightgown, revealing himself to Jon in pieces: his pretty, pink cock at a stand, his creamy white abdomen, nipples like rosettes that were pierced and jeweled. Once removed, Martin tossed the gown to the floor behind them, settling his hands on Jon's chest. 

The beautiful body against him felt so soft and warm, and Jon's skin prickled into goose flesh as he took in the sight of him. Their cocks were close—any closer and the tips would brush together, and Jon tried as best as he could to bury the part of him that was delighted by the thought. He could smell Martin’s skin, his hair, and in it were traces of perfumed oil with a warm, spicy fragrance that reminded him of vanilla and amber. 

Jon had never been an amorous man—something he attributed to an upbringing surrounded by girls, with scarcely a male companion until his adulthood. His closest friend throughout life had been Georgina Barker, daughter of the family that took guardianship of him after the death of his parents, and while he was sure he loved her—and could recall feeling tenderly for her as a boy—he likened her more to a sibling than to a partner (much to the chagrin of certain voices in the family). 

He'd been content to believe that children did, in fact, come from the parsley bed for far longer than was surely average, and his one and only venture in coition had been with a Parisian harlot during his time in Europe, well into his twenties. It had been a messy affair: she kissed him with an open mouth while he mounted her clumsily, his cock slipping out of her cunt several times. This sole event served as the extent of his amatory career. Jonathan Sims knew he was the furthest thing from a libertine, and for years he'd been fine with this, much preferring pursuits of a more intellectual nature. 

Martin was different. Jon had never been so taken with anyone before in his life, let alone so quickly. 

Noticing movement behind them, Jon looked beyond Martin's bare shoulder to see that Simon had leaned forward in his seat, retrieving something from beneath the coffee table. With haste, a small bottle was shoved in front of his face. It was Martin who took the bottle wordlessly, with a hand removed from Jon's chest. 

"Get it nice and slick," Peter muttered heatedly. 

What 'it' was, Jon was unsure. 

The beauty withdrew his other hand from his chest, and Jon immediately mourned the loss. He watched as the bottle was uncorked, and Martin poured the contents into his other hand: a shimmering, viscous fluid. With a sharp look, Martin foisted the bottle back to Simon, who took it with unending amusement. 

He took a moment to rub whatever it was between his hands before reaching down to stroke Jon's cock once more, spreading it down his shaft. Jon moaned warmly, watching for a moment before his eyes shut in bliss as Martin's ministrations went silky smooth with lubrication. 

He opened his eyes lazily when Martin's touch was no longer felt, greeted then by the sight of the beauty readjusting himself in his lap. One hand returned to Jon's shoulder as he angled their bodies closer, and Jon could feel his erection brush against his buttocks. 

With his other hand, Martin reached down, and Jon watched as he took his cock once more, guiding it between his legs and against his hole. The tip was rubbed into it briefly before gradually, it sank inside. Martin's hand returned to his shoulder, and Jon watched as the beauty lowered himself into his lap, taking his length fully to the hilt. He was warm, deliciously tight, and Jon let out a hissed breath of pleasure. 

Licking his lips, Martin let out a dreamy sigh before he began to ride him, rising up before sinking back down into his lap. He didn't kiss Jon with an open mouth, or at all; wordlessly, Jon somehow understood that it wasn't the sort of thing that was done here. Although he'd been so bold just before, Martin seemed more shy now. He avoided Jon’s gaze, making sweet little 'ah's and' hms' as he worked, bracing himself on Jon's shoulders.

He wasn't sure if it was the drink or his affection for the beauty that brought his own hands, which had been stationary at his side, up to touch Martin. Jon's palms found his soft hips, settling there before he thought to squeeze. He grew bolder and his hands wandered, smoothing over the soft expanse of his buttocks before he gripped them, squeezing and spreading his cheeks. 

Bringing one hand up from his arse, he—perhaps abruptly—pulled Martin flush against him, eliciting an almost-musical gasp as Martin's movements slowed. Jon buried his nose into the sweet flesh of his neck, inhaling the scent of amber and vanilla, before he began to lap and nip at the soft, tender skin. Shifting his own legs so that they were bent up on the couch, Jon began to fuck up into him as he mouthed and sucked at the beauty's neck. 

Martin moaned hotly, his shoulders rolling from the feel of the lips and tongue against his skin, and Jon wanted to hear it over and over again. As he fucked him harder and harder, they found their rhythm together, with Martin meeting his thrusts. Jon could feel his pretty pink cock poke into his belly; he coaxed him even closer with a hand on his lower back so that he would rub against him as they moved. Martin's hips rolled, and he cried out in delight.

Soon, Jon lost all coherence, fucking into his beauty as hard and fast as he could, each beautiful breath and pant and gasp and moan serving to reward him. He could only think of their pleasure, as if the room were empty save for them, could only hear a filthy cacophony of slapping skin, wet thrusting, and the intermingling sound of their lustful cries. 

His release came over him harder than he'd ever felt before. He buried himself into Martin down to his root, Jon's seed filling his lovely, perfect form in spasms as he cursed against his throat, his fingers wrapped tightly in brass-blond curls. 

They held one another until he'd finished, and Jon collapsed breathlessly into the back of the couch. 

In the wake of his release, he could remember little, mostly a collection of images and sensations: pale legs shifting as Martin removed himself, his own cock tender and overstimulated, now sadly bereft of the warm, beautiful creature he'd been nestled inside. The feel of his heavy head against the upholstery, vision blurred from drink and exhaustion. The vague inkling that the three men in the room were quite pleased with him, though he could not recall what they said or what he saw of them. 

The last thing he heard was the sound of Elias's voice. 

"You've soiled him. Clean it up."

Jon looked down, taking notice of the spattering of come on the exposed skin surrounding the base of his cock. As he faded away, he watched as Martin knelt down, licking up every drop. 

When he woke again, it was to a seemingly-empty room. Someone had redressed him as he slept.

Jon peeled himself up from the back of the sofa, every muscle in his body drained and aching. He had taken a deep breath, attempting to collect himself, when he heard Elias's voice. 

"Seems you quite enjoyed your evening," Elias said, his voice a husky whisper. 

Jon startled in his seat, head jerking in the direction of the minister's voice. He found Elias lingering in the rear corner of the room, not far from where he sat. "W-where is—" his beauty, he wanted to ask. 

Bless Elias, for he interjected before Jon could make a further fool of himself. "Oh, the other guests are long gone. It's quite late, or rather, it's quite early. The sun will start to rise in an hour or so." 

Jon choked at the time, and a fear began to swell in his chest; he was expected at home, should have returned last night. Georgina and her parents wouldn't be capable of anything but suspicion, and he had no clue what he would do upon pulling up to the house just as the sun rose, so deeply outside of his routine and surely smelling of sex and booze. 

Elias approached him with a fond sigh, sitting down on the couch beside him. "Your rest was well-deserved, you had quite the evening," he told him gently, affectionately rubbing Jon's shoulder. "I believe Mrs. Bouchard quite enjoyed your activities together as well."

At this, Jon could feel his breath catch in his throat, to which Elias offered him a comforting smile. 

"When you think you're ready, my man Gerard will cab you home. You don't need to worry about a thing. You can tell your guardians that we were going over blueprints for the remodel and I offered you a room to stay the night. I'll be happy to confirm it," Elias assured. 

Shortly after, Elias called for his personal carriage, and saw Jon off before he left. Jon, still nervous, spoke little and shyly averted his gaze. 

Before the chauffeur Gerard closed the carriage, Elias approached and took the door.

"I hope you aren't feeling too startled by the prior evening's events. I'd quite like for you to visit again soon." A smile played across the minister's face before he added: "And I think Mrs. Bouchard will be eager to see you as well"

Jon could feel his cheeks burning red hot as Elias shut the carriage door. 

He watched the sun rise from the carriage window on his way back into London. He knew he should have worried, should have told Elias no then and there, shouldn't have even considered returning, but the thought of never seeing Martin again was more agonizing than anything else. 

Jon knew he had to see him again, had to touch him again. He couldn't think of anything else, and wanted nothing else—even if it destroyed him.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end of chapter for notes/content warnings.

It was late at night when a gentle rain began to fall, pattering softly against window glass and roof shingles across London. At the Barker residence, Jonathan Sims did not sleep. 

The bedroom's silence was just barely broken by Jon's breaths and gasps as his fist slid rapidly up and down his own cock. Memories of that night in the country manor's parlor, of his sweet-smelling beauty, hadn't even begun to vacate his thoughts. Whenever he closed his eyes, it was Martin who ran through his mind, lovely and warm and bare and _his_, and he thought of nothing else but seeing him again—of feeling him flush against his skin as he buried himself inside of him. 

His release came with far less satisfaction now than it had that night. Thin, watery come sputtered weakly into his hand, and as he squeezed his length through waves of middling pleasure, Jon was left wanting. 

Falling back in frustration against his pillow, he knew he needed to see him again. 

Jon found his chance several days later. He'd been meaning to show Elias his first blueprint for an addition he'd requested, and decided he would arrive early in the day, thinking his chances of encountering Martin might be maximized. He was delighted when, upon his arrival, the attending servant—tall and curiously handsome as always—informed him that Elias would be in late, and that Elias said for Jon to 'take advantage of everything his home had to offer'. 

Jon took to the drawing room, accepted the servant's offer of tea, and waited. To bide his time, he settled on acquainting himself with the small library of books available to him within the room—something actually pertinent to his stated intentions for his visit today, because the addition of Elias's desire was a larger formal library, to better accommodate the entirety of his collection. 

He made a note of the library's contents for his own reference. Elias's taste was about what Jon expected, consisting of mostly philosophical and scientific tomes, some aged volumes written in Latin (a language in which Jon was also learned), as well as books on art and theology. He was surprised, however, to locate a small quantity of fiction in the vein of fairy tale anthologies and mythology, as well as collections of poetry. 

Eyeing the florid, emerald green spine of a volume entitled Keats Poems, he pulled it from the shelf. Jon found it very curious when, upon its retrieval, he discovered that the spine was quite broken, its front cover almost entirely disconnected from the binding. 

It had certainly not been his doing—for his removal had been gentle—so it must have been like this for some time then. It would be an easy and uncostly repair, Jon thought. Perhaps Elias had simply forgotten the book's damage. 

Jon did his best to maneuver the book back into its place. As he began to return to his seat, he startled at the sound of the door to the drawing room loudly slamming shut. 

He told himself it was only out of concern that he made his way to the door, thinking to investigate. Jon ducked his head out, looking into the hall, and saw nothing. However, he could make out the sound of footsteps, and he swore it sounded like someone running away.

He made his way down the hall in the direction of the sound. As he turned the corner, it emptied out into a larger room with stairs leading up—and swore he heard the very end of someone's run up the nearby flight. He walked to the bottom of the landing, and tilted his head upward to look at the very top. Another door slammed, and he wasn't sure if he truly saw the flash of brass-blond curls in the upstairs hall just before it did, or if it was an illusion manifest from his wishes. 

Jon stood there, mulling over the idea of walking up the stairs, when he heard another door open—only this time, it was very close. Out from the servant's passage beneath the stairs walked the tall, curiously handsome servant who so frequently escorted him. 

"Something wrong?" The servant asked, eyeing him sharply. 

"Ah—not really. I, uh, t-the door to the study slammed and I, I suppose I got curious," Jon stammered under the man's scrutiny. 

The servant stood straighter, and Jon realized then just how sizable he was. "We've some of the windows open today. Sometimes that can cause the doors to shut a bit suddenly—not sure why, something about the flow of air, I think," he said, speaking more firmly than he had. 

Jon found himself easily intimidated by the servant's tone, but he had probably earned it for wandering unchaperoned. "R-right, that makes sense. I apologize for any possible grievance caused by my wandering, I suppose I let my imagination get the best of me."

A placid smile spread across the servant's face. "Let me escort you back to the drawing room. In a house such as this, it's easy to lose your way."

"Y-yes, you have my thanks."

Shortly after, Jon found himself back in the drawing room with a fresh cup of tea. He thanked the servant again, who in turn let him know that Elias wouldn't be terribly much longer. 

"I can't recall if you've told me your name?" Jon asked. 

"Stoker, sir. Timothy Stoker," he said. With a silent nod, Timothy turned to leave, shutting the door behind him. It crossed Jon in that moment that it might be prudent to keep an eye on him. 

Elias arrived before the hour's end. After confirming revisions for the blueprint, Jon did not stay overlong. 

The next time he came to Elias's home, he'd been invited for another social affair. Since that night in the smoking room, Jon had done his best to dodge the invitations that followed, however he started to worry that his repeated rejections would pose a risk to their pending business arrangements. With hesitation, he acquiesced to an afternoon of suspiciously non-specific leisure.

Once again, he found himself escorted to the drawing room by the servant Timothy. When the door opened, the first face his eyes settled on was that of his beauty. Martin sat upon a burgundy leather chesterfield, snugly between Simon and Peter, a wry smile on his sweet face as they spoke, a cigar in his lovely hand. 

Blue-brown eyes lifted, his sleepy gaze locking with Jon's. Jon should have been used to the way all of his breath left his body when he saw him, and how without fail everything else ceased to exist. 

Timothy cleared his throat. Jon cast his gaze downward, flushing.

"Jonathan," Elias greeted warmly as he approached. "So happy to have you with us today." 

He took a hold of Jon's hands with an affection he found hard to ignore. 

"We're in the mood for billiards. I'm very much hoping you'll join us."

Flooded with relief that their engagements would be of a more tame nature, Jon was eager to join despite his lack of skill. He'd played with his peers in Oxford on occasion and knew the rules, but he could hardly consider himself a good shot—and the distraction draped across the couch did little to improve his game. Martin watched as he leaned against the nearest arm, peering at the table through long lashes. 

When he thought he could manage so without being noticed, Jon stole brief, desperate glances at him. They did little to sate his hunger, and he was only able to drink in the smallest of details at a time—his rouged lips as they blew out rings of cigar smoke, the provocative cut of his champagne pink tea gown, his coy manner as he returned the acknowledgements of the other men. 

Peter and Simon were eager to make it a betting game. Jon, with respect, opted to bow out and spectate. As the man of the house, Elias offered to officiate and ensure the fairness of the game (through murmerings, Jon was able to garner that Peter believed Simon a cheat). 

Before they began, Peter made his way over to the dry cart alongside the chesterfield to refill his glass of brandy. With his chin cupped in his hand, Martin watched him—and Jon watched Martin. 

"Look at you, pretty thing," Jon could hear Peter leer to his beauty from feet away. 

To this, Martin only offered an amused hum. Jon did his best to stave off the burn of jealousy in his stomach. 

"Do be careful, Peter. We all know how you can be when you overdrink," Elias quipped to him from the head of the billiard table. It was only then Jon realized that Elias seemed to be watching the two just as intently as he. Despite his playful tone, Jon was surprised by the coldness of his stare. 

The tension of the room was only amplified by Martin's stifled laughter. When Peter returned to the table, drink in hand, he emptied it in a single swig. The look he gave Elias struck Jon with its venom. 

Jon looked on with amusement as the men took their shots on the table, exchanging taunts and banter as they did. Peter had an excellent eye, but Simon was sharp, thus they were an even match. It mattered little to Jon who won or lost; he used the distraction of the men to watch his beauty on the couch. Martin looked on with amusement; his cigar long gone, he sipped at his own glass of brandy with curious eyes.

Jon watched as Martin set his glass down on the dry cart. He didn't expect for Martin to then look up and meet his gaze. Again, he felt breathless, but his desire to be seen overpowered his fear of being discovered. 

Martin watched him for a moment with an unreadable expression. He didn't look away as he bit down gently on his lower lip. Jon swallowed and looked down, his heart fluttering in his chest. 

It was a close game, but in the end, Simon emerged victorious. Bitterly, Peter poured himself another drink. 

As the evening pressed on, Peter continued to drink. Simon exited with his winning, cackling. and Peter turned his attentions to Martin with a seemingly single-minded focus. Jon had thought to leave—and was eager to do so—but his jealousy kept him in his seat, watching as Peter pressed and pawed into his beauty, feeling through his gown. Martin grimaced as the drunken man pulled him close, mouthing sloppily at his neck. 

"Ugh, you're drunk—" Martin scowled, trying to angle himself away. 

"Not too drunk," Peter retorted with a leer. 

Jon, seated across from them, watched as he yanked Martin’s skirts up, shoving a hand between his legs. Martin pushed weakly at his chest with a disgusted scoff; Peter then used his full force, pushing him back and down into the couch, where he began to pull savagely at the fastenings of his gown. 

"Peter—you're being too rough—" 

The leather of the chesterfield squeaked beneath them as Martin smacked uselessly against Peter's chest and arms. His gown now fully open, Peter spread his legs with his knees and laid himself atop him. Martin let out a sharp gasp, whimpering as Peter rubbed against him. 

More horrifying than the display before Jon was the way his cock stood as he watched. 

When, at last, his sense came to him and he thought to rise, Jon noticed that Elias—sat beside him on the settee—had brought his hand up to stroke his inner thigh. 

"Feeling fondly?" He asked Jon pointedly, gently ghosting his clothed erection. 

"I—" Jon stammered. 

Slowly, Elias pointed his gaze to the scene on the couch. "He's lovely, isn't he?"

Watching with Elias, he nodded in shy hesitation. "Y-yes. Very much so." 

Jon continued to watch as Peter lowered his trousers, freeing his engorged red cock. Grabbing Martin's thighs, he pushed them up and forward before spitting in his hand and rubbing it over his cock—and then he mounted the beauty. Martin let out a desperate, heated cry as Peter pushed himself inside his hole and began pounding into him roughly, the chesterfield creaking beneath them as their skin slapped together. 

Elias began to rub and fondle Jon through his trousers in a teasing, rhythmic motion. 

"E-Elias—" Jon stammered, gasping as he turned his head away from the minister. 

"Just keep watching, Jon. You can do that for me, can't you?" 

Jon could only manage a soft, disbelieving whimper in response. He turned his gaze back to Martin and Peter on the couch, swallowing as Elias took him out of his trousers, slowly stroking his shaft. 

He obeyed at first, sinking into his seat, watching the scene in front of them as Elias worked his cock torturously. Jon struggled against his body's reactions to the minister's touch, his hips rolling upward against his own will as he fough the urge to fuck up into the hand that stroked him. Time seemed to slow cruelly; he shut his eyes, let Elias bring him to completion as he listened to Martin's moans and cries, thinking of soft, splayed white thighs and swollen, smeared red lips. 

With a sob, Jon spilled his seed in Elias's hand. He stroked him through his release, squeezing him 'til the last drop. 

"You're so good for me, Jon," Elias whispered into his ear, his breath hot against his lobe.

When the world around him came back into focus, Jon was greeted by the sight of Peter squat on the couch over Martin's chest as he held his hair. Fisting his cock rapidly, he came in white streams on Martin's open mouth and cheeks. His stomach roiled in disgust; Jon was unsure if it was at Peter or himself. 

Now parched, Peter announced his intent to refill his glass. He was quite aggrieved when Elias, who had already vacated Jon's side, told him he'd had quite enough that evening and guided him elsewhere. 

After putting himself back into his trousers, Jon looked back up to the couch. Silently Martin sat, shrunken in on himself as he examined his gown for damage, Peter's seed still on his face. 

It was guilt that led Jon to stand and approach him then. From his pocket, he withdrew a handkerchief, and extended it to Martin.

Martin lifted his gaze, his blue-brown eyes glaring up at Jon.

"I—"

Before he could speak any more, Martin scoffed and shook his head, snatching the cloth from Jon's hand. He wiped off his face and, as quickly as he had taken it, threw the soiled garment back at Jon with a pointed look before storming away. 

After this, Jon resolved himself to stay away, and buried himself in work. His relationship with Elias had done wonders for his income, and he'd picked up numerous clients through gatherings and word of mouth—thus, he was able to give the perfect half-truth explanation for his repeated rejections to the invitations that followed.

When Jon finally relented almost a month later, he told himself in the days leading up that what he felt was anxiety—not excitement. He was comforted by the knowledge that Peter would not be present for this particular occasion. 

When the servant—Timothy—opened the door to the drawing room, the very first thing he saw was Simon sat upon the chesterfield reading the paper, thighs spread as Martin sucked noisily on his cock, naked and sprawled on the floor. 

Jon ventured a meaningful glance in Timothy's direction. He'd hoped to see shock—some sort of acknowledgement that what was occurring was abnormal—but the servant expressed no reaction before he turned to leave. It was then that Simon noticed his arrival.

"Ah! Fine afternoon, isn't it?" The elderly gentleman chirped.

Jon blinked, taking a nervous swallow. At that moment Elias appeared, as if to rescue him. 

"So good to see you again, Jon!" Elias greeted. "Take the opportunity to relax. I hear you've been terribly busy."

Jon was quick to accept an offer of drink and regale them with the details of his recent projects. As he did, Simon gave Martin a fond pat on the head, dismissing the lovely creature from his work. Jon's speech faltered as he watched Martin struggle to stand, and then simply rest his head against the couch. 

"Is—is… Mrs. Bouchard alright?" Jon asked with hesitation. He was unsure of the proper manner in which he should even address Martin. 

As if he'd said something funny, Elias chuckled. "_Mrs_. Bouchard is quite well, I can assure you. He merely needs assistance with behaving, on occasion. To fret for him would be a waste." His tone struck Jon as cold. 

Elias then flashed a smile. "I'm rather in the mood for a game. Is anyone up for cards?" He asked, beaming. 

Simon seemed to weigh his options. "Hm. It would be nice, I suppose, to win against an opponent who I know could offer an actual challenge. My usual opposition is considerably more pitiful."

Simon rose from his seat, and he joined Elias in heading for the card table in the back of the room. Jon lingered, his eyes fixed on Martin. 

"Jon?" 

Looking up, he saw that Elias had stopped, and eyed him with curiosity. Something like a smirk spread across his face. "You could keep him company, if you like." 

With that, Jon was left to his own devices, his beauty only feet away. Working up the nerve, he approached the chesterfield and knelt down beside Martin. When he didn't stir, Jon put a hand upon his shoulder and shook gently. At this, Martin let out a moan and turned his head, forehead still pressed into the upholstery. 

"Are you alright?" Jon whispered, careful not to be heard by the two gentlemen in the back of the room. 

Martin managed only a weary whine, peering up at him through long lashes, and the dullness of his gaze only served to worsen Jon's concern for him. Martin pulled himself away from the sofa, and started to move towards Jon before falling into his arms.

Martin murmured something into his waistcoat, but Jon found himself unable to parse whatever it had been. He reached up to grab the sides of his arms but Martin recoiled as soon as he was touched, whimpering in pain. 

"Shh, shh! It's okay, I don't want to hurt you," Jon urged in a hushed tone. 

On a hunch, Jon reached again for Martin's arms, but this time, he only cradled them gently with his fingers as he checked for injury. He was surprised to discover, on the tender skin of the inside of a forearm, a small, bruised puncture surrounded by dried blood. Morphine, he thought to himself, as he took a heavy breath. 

"Come, you'll feel better if you sit down."

Jon helped Martin to stand from the floor just long enough to coax him into sitting next to him on the chesterfield. Martin leaned against him languidly, gripping onto the fabric of his shirt. 

Jon gave him a nervous smile, rubbing his shoulder comfortingly. "That's a bit better, isn't it?" He asked. 

Murmuring incoherently, Martin reached forward, and began to fondle him through his trousers. Startled, Jon grabbed his hand, pulling it up and away from his groin. "Ah, n-no. Please."

Jon kept a hold of his hand for a moment, until Martin seemed to forget and pressed himself further against him, nuzzling affectionately. Jon flushed, and continued to pet him as he held him. 

They sat there like that for a while. When Jon's hand dropped from his shoulder, he stroked his leg idly. Martin let out a soft, sweet noise and spread his thighs, leaning back. Jon looked down—not actually intending to glance between his legs—and saw that his cock had begun to harden. 

Jon paused for a moment before beginning again, shifting his hand's position to stroke his abdomen teasingly. Martin let out a small whine and canted his hips. 

"Is that nice?" He asked. 

Martin nodded his head against his shirt, reaching up to grip the fabric. 

Jon thought hard before he spoke again. "Come here."

Jon repositioned them so that Martin was in his lap, the back of his pretty head rested against his shoulder, and started again. He grazed his fingers along his belly, ghosting them just above the base of his cock before pulling back and starting again. Eyeing his chest, he brushed a teasing finger against one of his nipples. Martin gasped and, pleased, Jon pinched and pulled the tender, pierced bud, delighting as he squirmed. 

Martin's legs spread further, his cock painfully hard and leaking precome. Jon's hand dropped between his thighs, running the side of his finger along the underneath of his shaft. Martin rolled his hips, whimpering needily, and pulled pleadingly on Jon's shirt. At last he relented, taking him into his hand, and Martin let out a sweet, relieved cry. 

It was far from the first time he'd pleased another man. During his time at Balliol, Jon found himself in a social club with a very strict and unique policy: every member, upon initiation, was entitled to have his cock felt by members of inferior status. He could recall countless occasions he'd spent time in private rooms, bringing wealthier peers with more seniority within the club to orgasm with his hands (but never more). 

At the time, it was something he didn't question. He participated without feelings of lust but was curious about the bodies of other men and relished the opportunity to sate that curiosity, assuming that the others felt the same as he did. Thinking back on it now, he doubted his assumption was true, and the entire experience felt very silly in retrospect.

Jon worked his cock slowly, earning him pants and moans as Martin did his best to meet his strokes, rocking into his hand. When he thought he was coming close, he'd slow his rhythm to a near stop, waiting for him to come back down again before resuming. He didn't want him to come, not yet; if he kept him on the very edge of release, he could touch Martin for as long as he liked. 

He nuzzled his beauty affectionately as he pleased him. Nose buried into his curls, Jon inhaled, taking in the sweet scent of vanilla and amber he remembered fondly from the night in the smoking room. Martin's head began to shift ; Jon pulled himself away from his hair, and watched him crane his head back to look at him. 

Sleepy blue-brown eyes gazed up at him, his cheeks flushed with heat and his pretty lips parted. Jon thought of how soft they'd feel to kiss, and what he'd do to have the smallest chance. Would his mouth taste as sweet as it looked? 

It was then that Jon heard the clatter of the bottles and glass on the dry cart beside the chesterfield. He froze; when he turned his head, it was Simon that he saw, pouring himself another drink with a cheeky grin. 

"And I was wondering why it had gotten so quiet over on this side," Simon chortled, taking a quick sip of his brandy. "It's he who should be providing the hospitality, Mr. Sims," he added, in a tone more stern than previously. 

Deciding that he wasn't especially in trouble, Jon resumed his ministrations (which earned him a notably delighted cry from Martin). 

"You don't like to watch him like this?" He asked.

To this, Simon only shrugged, making his way back to the card game with his glass. 

"Mr. Sims is a fellow man of culture," he could hear Elias say from the back or the room. "Men of taste know how to best appreciate beauty."

Left back to their devices, Jon resumed his affections, stroking him to near completion. Only this time, when he removed his hand, Martin let out a tortured mewl. He turned his head, burying his face into Jon's chest. 

"_Mmmmplease_," Martin whined, grabbing hold of the hand that Jon had been using. Jon decided then that, no, he probably wasn't being entirely fair to his beauty. 

He might not have the chance to know his lips, but he could surely taste his cock. 

Jon eased Martin off of his lap before gently coaxing him down onto the chesterfield. Nudging his bent legs apart, Jon laid on his stomach between his thighs, and took a moment to admire the pretty pink length hard against his hip before taking him into his hand. As he began to press kisses to the underside of his shaft, Martin let out a gasp, and relaxed his head against the arm of the chesterfield. 

He'd never had another man in his mouth before—but Jon figured it couldn't be terribly difficult. He took the tip into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it inquisitively. When he saw the twitch of Martin’s hips, he took as much of him inside as he could, saliva pooling. He began to suck, moving slowly up and down, fisting the length he was unable to accommodate with his hand. 

Martin's cries were loud and sharp as he worked, and so Jon sucked with more vigor, moving his head faster and faster. His own prick throbbed as he took in the scent of Martin’s musk, the taste of him salty and sweet on his tongue. Martin's hips rolled, thrusting slightly into his mouth, so Jon managed as he best could to accommodate him, sucking in rhythm with his movements. 

"Ah—_gonnacome_—" Martin mewled, white throat bared as he rolled back his head. 

Jon brought him to a finish with a hard suck, feeling the pulse of his cock as he spent into his mouth. Admittedly, he found himself a bit surprised by the force of his release. Pulling back, beads of come painted his lips and mouth. 

He noticed as Martin peeled his head off of the arm of the couch to look at him. Meeting his pretty gaze, Jon swallowed his seed; he didn't look away as he licked the come from his mouth, nor did he look away when he leaned forward to tongue the slit, hand squeezing him of what remained. 

Martin flushed darkly before leaning back and concealing his embarrassment with a forearm. 

It wasn't much long after that Martin fell asleep, exhaustion overpowering him. Neither Elias or Simon spoke a critical word, but both grinned famously when he joined their game of cards. When Jon left hours later, he saw that Martin still slept, with an expression on his face far more blissful than when he'd arrived earlier. 

After that, Jon found his confidence renewed; thus he conjured yet another justification for arriving at the manor when he was sure that Elias would be out. Once again, he was escorted to the drawing room where he busied himself in his wait with examination of the minister's curiosities. 

When tea and sandwiches arrived, Jon was surprised by the quantity, judging it to be entirely too much for a single guest's entertainment. While attempting to broach the subject with the attending servant, he was interrupted by a new arrival to the drawing room. 

When Jon looked up, it was his beauty that lingered in the threshold, eyeing him with a sharp, terribly lovely gaze. 

"I see you're early again, Mr. Sims."


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end of chapter for notes/content warnings.

While the garden party had been the first time Jon ever laid eyes on him, the same could hardly be said of Martin. 

He had lifted his gaze from the lay of the table and spied Jonathan Sims from across the garden. Their eyes locked;_ 'caught you'_, Martin thought, and held the contact, waiting for his reaction. When the architect looked away impotently, he couldn't help but laugh under his breath. 

Martin had been well aware of Elias's interest in the man named Jonathan Sims. To what end, he found himself curious. 

At the tail-end of winter, Martin had been quick to notice that Elias was receiving a guest he'd never seen before—and with increasing frequency. He watched on several different occasions from the window of his boudoir as a carriage pulled up and dispensed of an unknown, dark-haired figure. This was new, he thought; it had been quite some time since his husband had last entertained a stranger, and even stranger was that Elias had mentioned nothing of it. 

Once Martin was confident of the pattern, he decided it was perhaps an occurrence worth investigating.

Spring began with force, melting the lingering frost and giving way to the bloom of tulips and daffodils. An otherwise ordinary Wednesday came, and Martin watched from the window as Elias's stranger arrived once more on a sunny afternoon. Still in his nightgown, he left his chambers and snuck soundlessly downstairs to the main floor on bare feet. 

Martin waited until the servants had ceased their movements and the two men were settled before advancing towards the drawing room. He stood outside the door and listened as they laughed over political prattle, before kneeling at the keyhole. It was there on that Wednesday that he took his first true glimpse of Jonathan Sims, a cup of tea in hand as he sat across from Elias on the chesterfield. 

Dark brown hair, olive skin, fairly well-dressed—but his wardrobe indicated no significant wealth, and he knew Elias had little use for the middle class. Considerably more troubling was his relative youth; this architect was around his age. His husband's associations had always leaned much older, to those of comparable status. 

__

_'What could he possibly want with you?_', Martin wondered. 

It wasn't until the fall that he was able to piece everything together, when his husband finally deigned to mention the stranger during one of his evening visits. 

"I'm going to have you entertain someone new in the coming weeks," Elias told him between grunts and pants, fucking into him with shallow, dull thrusts. 

He always liked to talk when he fucked, which Martin found eccentric—or entirely irritating, depending on how honest of a mood he was in. This revelation would likely be the most exciting part of his evening, so Martin thought he ought to at least pretend to listen. 

"Who are you extorting this time?" He asked, feigning as much interest as he could muster while he toyed idly with the fraying embroidery of the blanket beneath them. 

When Elias came to his bed in the evenings, what he would do to him felt less like sex and more along the lines of spearing a hog. Martin would lay on his arms with his ass in the air while his 'husband' used him for pleasure, fucking his hole for however long it would take him to come. Elias had been more virile once, years ago, but age seemed to have gotten the best of him—and Martin suspected a loss of interest had something to do with it as well. 

Perhaps he'd come faster if Martin sobbed beneath him like he used to, he wondered with a roll of his eyes. 

"No schemes. Well—I've something different in mind. It's not about money," Elias rambled between thrusts and breaths. "I've acquired a new friend. I'd like to bring him into our fold. I think he'll be willing."

At this, Martin's brows raised, and began to pay his husband attention in earnest, momentarily forgetting his increasing impatience with the current situation. Martin hummed, looking over his shoulder to Elias with a coy expression. 

"Who is he?" He asked, in his most pleasing tone of voice. 

Elias cursed abruptly, his softening prick slipping from Martin's hole. He began to stroke himself in an attempt to regain his erection; Martin tried to stifle his groan. 

"His name is Jonathan Sims. Happened to run into him while I was out about town and—" Elias moaned, and Martin quirked a brow as his tone developed a new heat. "I do quite like him," he said, almost purring, which did not escape Martin's notice. 

He lifted himself from his stomach and sat on the bed, turning to watch with a disgusted fascination. "Is that the one who's been visiting so much? I happen to know about that."

"I'm aware. Your prying is hardly unnoticed," Elias grumbled. With frustration, he released his cock. 

"Give me your mouth. Put it to proper use."

Martin sucked him back to a stand, and Elias fucked his throat until he came at last. 

"I'm going to invite him over for a… _friendly get-together_. I expect you to give him your very best efforts," Elias told him before he left for his own bed. 

It hardly took Martin's 'best efforts' to bring a man to begging, but making that point to Elias would have been wasted (if he had lingered long enough to even hear it). Despite years beneath his thumb, his husband remained critical of his work. 

Martin would give himself an orgasm that night, since Elias never cared to. 

In the days that followed, Martin found himself locked in his quarters for "poor behavior"—more specifically, throwing a bottle of bordeaux at Simon Fairchild. Limited by the short chain around his ankle to a strict routine of three square meals a day in bed with intermittent hobbling to the provided bed pan, he was unaware when the evening of Elias's friendly get-together finally came about. After being woken unexpectedly by Jared, Martin found himself face to face with the young architect, without any doors or distractions between them. 

He may have played at propriety, but Martin could see the desire in his eyes: Jonathan Sims wanted him, that much was plain. 

With this new proximity, he could see him in detail: Short, dark brown hair, combed and parted to the side. Dark, gentle eyes. A warm, olive complexion. A face that was, overall, inoffensive—perhaps even understatedly handsome. A slim build that seemed to suggest he was neither especially tall or short. Jonathan Sims ogled with an obvious trepidation, flinching as their legs brushed. 

The architect's lack of experience was obvious, but at the end of the day, he was an associate of Elias; at their core, such men were all the same. 

Martin knew how this would go: he'd do a bit of mouth work, give him a ride, put on a good performance, and it would be over in minutes. It never took him long to finish a man in general, but he was certain that Jonathan Sims would be an even quicker case with the manner in which he carried himself. 

He was not expecting the young architect to pull him close and fuck him like he did, mouthing and grasping at him as if he were something to worship. Together, they found the perfect angle and pace, and Martin's performance became something real. In the end, the architect wasn't so impotent after all—and Martin was something close to impressed. 

He would be embarrassed to admit it, but Martin felt something like loss when he removed himself from the young architect's lap. Elias would come to heap his praises the following mid-morning. 

"I couldn't help but notice that you took quite a liking to Jon last night," Elias baited from the edge of the bed as he watched Martin at his vanity. Martin didn't bother to give his husband a glance as he powdered his freckled cheeks in vain. 

"Can't remember the last cock I had that wasn't over the age of fifty," Martin swiped, forcefully returning the ribboned puff to its canister before setting it down. He continued to ignore Elias as he debated internally on which shade of rouge he felt like wearing that day. Elias let out a particularly grating chuckle. 

"It's not that I'm bothered, pet. I'm inordinately _pleased_, to be quite honest." He stood then and crept up behind Martin, placing his hands on his shoulders. "I wanted to let you know how delighted I was with your performance last night. I believe Jon is quite taken with you, as well—something I'm very eager to encourage."

Martin found himself picking up a random pot of rouge in the continued interest of not making eye contact, burying the urge to push him away or throw the damned pot against the mirror. Elias lifted a hand to stroke his hair; he took a deep breath as he considered his next words. 

"Cut to the chase. What do you want me to do?" Martin asked, risking a glance to his husband's reflection in the mirror. The predatory gaze that he saw within made his stomach roil with an uneasy coldness. 

"Simply put, I'm invested in his frequent return to our home, and I think your particular talents are the best way to ensure that he does. When he visits again—and I'm confident he will—I'd like you to entertain him to the fullest extent of your capabilities." 

Martin's eyes dropped to the surface of the vanity table. Elias leaned in, kissing him on the cheek before lingering by his ear. "Be a good wife for me and do as I ask. Although, I suspect you'll be eager to do so, in this case," he whispered. 

As the door shut behind him, a pot of rouge was hurled across the room, shattering against the hardwood floor.

Barely a week had passed before the fool showed up on their doorstep once more. How convenient it was, Martin thought, that Elias was not there to receive him, and how convenient it was that the architect made his visit so early in the day. 

Martin knew what both men wanted and wished to appease neither. 

When he knew the halls to be clear, he snuck from his room and down the stairs once again. The door to the drawing room had been left ajar, and Martin stood alongside its threshold. With a deep breath, he took a look inside the room. 

Having anticipated the sight of him on the chesterfield nursing a glass of brandy in wait, he wasn't expecting to find Jon by the wall of books, examining the collection with intensity. Martin watched as the architect thumbed across the spines of whichever titles caught his eye, an anxious tension visible in his attractively tapered shoulders. He did his best to quash any and all thoughts that came to mind of easing that tension. 

When Jon stopped curiously in front of the volumes Martin knew to be his own, his breath caught in his throat. He watched him pause before reaching out and removing a single book from the shelf. The sight of the florid, emerald green collection of Keats held gently in Jon's hands made his heart flutter. 

He shouldn't have come downstairs, Martin thought—and then he grabbed the door to the drawing room and slammed it shut. 

Sometimes, he didn't really know why exactly he did the things he did. Elias told him it was because he was spoiled, malcontent, _desperate for attention and acting out_. Maybe it was true; perhaps he made his presence known and fled, hoping that Jon would chase after him. Martin wasn't sure what he would do if Jon did chase after him, but maybe if he did, it would be for a noble reason. 

Or, maybe it was the sight of a seemingly gentle man with a book in his hands who hadn't an idea what he had gotten himself into that gave Martin cause to run, wishing he didn't have a coming role to play. He told himself it was unlikely—if Elias was so interested in Jon, then Jon couldn't possibly be any different from him. 

Once inside his chambers, Martin decided he would wait until Elias's architect had gone before leaving to take another, very different sort of ride. The sun was due to set in an hour when Martin made it to the stables with an offering of carrots in hand. 

"Cream! Come here, Cream! I brought you a treat!" 

Inside the stall, a pale-haired Shetland rose from where she lay and approached Martin. Leaning over the door, Martin extended a single carrot, which Cream accepted with enthusiasm. Sufficiently close, he took the opportunity to ruff his fingers through her soft coat. 

Martin was freshly turned sixteen when he came to live with Elias. His husband (although that wasn't what Martin realized him to be at the time) had been eager to purchase his affections with many gifts, and Cream had been the most successful of them all. He'd been rather small for his age and was able to make use of such a diminutive specimen for a year, until finally manhood got the best of him and Elias had the creature retired from use. Replaced with an Arabian that Martin had met with initial resistance, the small steed still had a place in his heart, and for years he had visited often. 

Alice Tonner—who preferred "Daisy"—approached from Martin's side, watching the small pony with something like fondness. "You're awfully late. Still want to go on a ride?" She asked, wiping her hands clean of something with a rag.

"It doesn't have to be for long. I only needed to get outside for a little while," Martin said, his voice forlorn. 

"That's fine. I'll have Cream Two saddled up quick."

Although he couldn't hate an animal on principle, Martin never was able to come up with a more clever name for the Arabian. Still, Cream Two was greeted with a treat of his own (and a loving pat on the nose). 

Martin sat side-saddle atop the grey dapple, riding through the pasture of thrift and cornflowers as the afternoon sky darkened into the stars of night. Daisy kept them on a close lead; he hadn't been allowed to ride on his own for years. 

"What's got you in such a foul mood?" Daisy asked him suddenly, slowing so that she might walk beside him. 

Martin let out an irritable sigh. "Not much more than usual. I wanted to get away from the house—from dear husband and his guest."

"Mr. Bouchard should be back around now, yeah? Sure he won't like it that you're not there waiting to greet him with a kiss." Daisy gave him a knowing smirk. "Gerry did mention that there was a new one lurking about the house. Another one of your dear husband's slimy politician friends?" 

"He's not a politician—or slimy," Martin grumbled. His eyes fell down to his lap, and he gave Cream Two a comforting stroke. "I just—I don't know. It's not—" He sighed, giving up on his words. 

At this, Daisy gave him a raise of her brows. "You're usually a much sharper critic of Mr. Bouchard's associates, _my lady_. Don't tell me he's actually decent, now," she teased.

Martin gave her an agonized look. "I really don't want to talk about it," he pleaded. "I just want to get some fresh air, and try to forget."

"Fine, fine. Keep your secrets. If he sticks around, I'll see him about soon enough."

Martin made his return to the house when the sun was almost vanished, doing his best to not be noticed upon his return. 

When Elias located him in his chambers later that evening, his disappointment was communicated without subtlety. Once the door was shut behind him, Martin threw himself onto his bed with an irritated sigh. At this point there was nothing the man could do to him that could manage to hurt him; after years in his care, Elias's punishments were hardly affecting enough to even pass the time. 

Jonathan Sims was a guest on two following occasions, and Martin would come to wish that he remembered infinitely less of the first and far more of the second. 

The first involved the soiling of one of his most favorite gowns—a modernly fashioned number in champagne silk—and the architect's feeble pity. The sight of the offered handkerchief had filled Martin with a rage so intense that he didn't realize he'd taken it and thrown it back at him. Only much later, after his anger had subsided did he recall the action with a lingering bitterness, and something resembling remorse.

He wasn't sure why he had been so angry at Jon that night. He wasn't sure what it was that he expected him to do differently. 

The second occasion—well, it would have been an understatement to say that Martin found himself recalling that afternoon when dear husband left him wanting. On evenings such as this, he was able to find the company he needed in a manner that was markedly more self-sufficient. Reaching beneath his four-poster bed, Martin would retrieve a box that Elias had no knowledge was there. Waiting inside was a carved ivory toy. 

Briefly, his husband had gone through a phase where he'd taken to making use of toys and dilators in the bedroom and had commissioned various custom pieces—the ivory toy being one among them. Long after Elias had lost interest, Martin was keen to locate and reappropriate the device for his own personal use; thus, the sizable ivory cock found its new, secret residence in his chambers. 

Left to his own pleasure, he found it easy to bring himself to release when he'd found himself so inspired. He would think of the desperate lips that kissed his throat with urgency, the gentle scratch of a stubbled jaw against his skin, hands that gripped him and held him, fucking him like he needed him. He would think of an afternoon where he stumbled through a fog and found himself in a warm embrace, worked to torturous pleasure by gentle hands that asked for nothing in return, taken to completion by a mouth that swallowed his seed. With memories of the young architect vivid in his mind, his orgasm came swiftly. 

With Jonathan Sims taking up so much space in his mind, it was difficult to think of much else. 

Another visit followed that afternoon with haste, and this time, Martin decided he would receive his husband's favored guest on this occasion. Descending to the main floor in a silken shirtwaist and mauve fan skirt, he would let Tim know to set out tea for two. 

"I see you're early again, Mr. Sims," he said, just as the architect realized his presence. 

It was difficult to resist his inclination to smile at the sight of Jon's widened gaze. Despite his better judgement, it was hard not to look at the man and find something endearing in the way that he looked at him with desiring awe. 

"I—I wasn't, ah, expecting to see you. Mrs. Bouchard," Jon stumbled, his tone rigid and unsure as he addressed him. "I was hoping to—to meet with Elias—Mr. Bouchard, I mean. I'm sorry if my being here has—has caused you inconvenience."

At this, a chuckle did manage to escape Martin. The architect really was just terribly sweet—too sweet for the company he'd fallen in tom 

"Is that so?" Martin asked, although he wasn't truly in want of an answer. Slowly, he approached Jon where he sat on the couch. 

"_Elias_ won't be in for quite a while. You're more than welcome to wait for him here, but until then, I'm afraid you've only my company."

Martin reached out to the table in front of them, taking from it a cup of tea.

"And, you can just call me Martin. I'm not Mrs. Bouchard, not really," he said, before taking a quick sip, his eyes unmoved from Jon all the while. "Would you like to call me Martin?" 

The flush of pink on Jon's cheeks was unmistakable.

"I—yes, I—" 

Martin couldn't help but giggle. Jon's brow furrowed in confusion, his cheeks only reddening. 

"Y-you—you can just call me Jon, if you like," The architect offered shyly. 

"Hm. I was going to do it anyway," Martin teased. He took a breathy, perhaps indulgent sigh, before playing with the architect's name on his tongue. "_Jon_."

Martin took his cup of tea with him when he sat next to Jon on the chesterfield. Not quite yet satisfied with their proximity, he scooted closer until their sides brushed. When he looked back up, the young architect eyed him anxiously, his posture rigid—after all the things he'd seen (and done) on this couch, he could have stood to relax, Martin thought. 

"What brings you in so early today?" He asked, with eyes sharp enough to pierce. He could see Jon swallowed anxiously, and Martin took in all of his small, involuntary responses—the way he began to rub his neck, the bite of his lip, the furrow of his brow—with delight.

"W-Well, I was hoping to speak with—with Elias about the draft for one of his requested remodels. A number of revisions were requested on the design, and I'd like to get his approval on the alterations," Jon stammered, giving him an anxious smile that was surely intended to be placating. 

"Is that sort of thing common in your line of work?" He pressed, brows raised in scrutiny. 

Deliberately, he began to stroke the rim of his teacup. Immediately, Jon's gaze fell; Martin thought he quite liked the way embarrassment looked on his face. 

"It's—it's certainly part of the job, yes. Clients will often, ah, have second thoughts or new ideas, remember something that they forgot in their initial proposal—o-or, they'll have a look at the first draft and see something that they think could be improved upon. It's quite normal, really."

For most men, it would have been natural to respond defensively to his line of questioning, but Martin didn't detect any affront in his tone. Instead, Jon was eager to please, his gentle smile unwavering. 

"I see. You work in London, correct?" 

Martin didn't wait for an answer before continuing, even though Jon had opened his mouth to speak. 

"Would it not be easier for you to simply meet with him while he was in the city? The house isn't exactly close. This traveling that you're doing must be quite an inconvenience for you. One might think you're coming out all this way for very little reason." 

Martin took a sip of tea, eyeing him curiously past the edge of the cup. 

A silence lingered between them before Jon spoke to answer, his gaze remaining in his own lap. 

"I—well, I'd rather not risk interrupting anyone during their hours of business. And, it's not a terrible inconvenience to come out to the country. The area is lovely, and I don't mind the wait." Jon seemed to realize he was rambling, and cleared his throat. "But if it's a bother to you, I could—" 

"It's not," Martin interrupted sharply. 

Rather than continue, Jon fell silent again. At the sight of how shrunken in he'd become, Martin wondered if perhaps he was being too caviling.

Martin rose from the chesterfield and made his way back to the pot of tea to pour himself another cup. "Just seems a shame to wait all this time," he said under his breath with a sigh. 

Martin wondered what Jon would next, and if the architect would take the opening he was making for him. 

"Would you like to see it?" Jon asked. "T-the draft, I mean," he was quick to add. When Martin looked back up to him, he was already reaching for the thing; the eagerness of it forced a reluctant smile from him. Admittedly, this was not the gesture he had expected. 

"I don't know anything about something so fancy as architecture. I'm afraid your efforts would be wasted." With Martin's words came a sad laugh, though he hadn't intended it to be so. 

"There's nothing special you need to know. And it's my job to explain these sorts of things when needed! It's your house as well, you could have a say in the remodel, if you like."

For a moment, Martin stood there, holding the pot of tea in something like a stasis. It's your house as well, his mind repeated, mulling over the words. A heavy feeling in Martin's chest gave way to a sigh. 

"Fine. Show me your draft," he said at last. 

They spent the time until Elias arrived chatting about the library addition. Martin asked questions as they came to him: could the wallpaper be blue? Elias quite hated blue, and he thought it would be amusing. Could the amount of windows be increased? Elias may be concerned about the negative effects of sunlight on the pages, but Martin was far more concerned about the positive effects of sunlight on one's well-being! Did you know that fresh air and sunlight had powerful effects on one's moods, he had asked. It would simply not do to create an environment where one would feel as if they were locked in a dark prison. 

Jon answered his queries and whims with laughter and a smile. Never once did he seem to tire of it, or imply that those answers were obvious—Martin found that he quite liked that. 

"I'll see if I can put in a word with Elias. Although, I'm hesitant—I do want to keep my job," Jon told him in earnest. 

"I understand. I think I'd like you to keep your job too," Martin confessed with a wink. 

He would go on to entertain himself that night, indeed. It wasn't that conversing with Jon hadn't been pleasant—truthfully, Martin had quite enjoyed himself—but was there anything wrong with imagining that it had gone differently, if it would please him to do so? 

Perhaps it wouldn't have been so terrible if Jon had been there because he had another motive—and let himself admit it. Perhaps it would have also been pleasant, if instead, Martin had sat in Jon's lap like he had months ago instead of relentlessly questioning him. Would the architect have stammered in fear if he had? Or would he have grabbed him with all the need that he'd shown before, desire only strengthened with time?

Martin would have let Jonathan Sims take him however he'd liked. He could have fucked him on his lap again, if he preferred, or pinned him against the chesterfield and taken him with force. If he'd torn a gown in the process, Martin would have forgiven him, and if it hurt just a bit, it would have been all the sweeter for it. Perhaps they could have started with him naked on the floor sucking Jon stiff, before retiring to his chambers and fucking there. If it was on his back or his stomach with his ass in the air, it wouldn't have mattered; Martin would have taken Jon's cock eagerly, and only begged him for more. 

He worked himself that night on his bed with the ivory cock until release came over him. If Martin closed his eyes, he could almost pretend that it felt just as good as Jon had inside of him.


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end of chapter for notes/content warnings.

No matter how much he had dreamt of it, Jon found himself unprepared for the reality of his encounter with Martin in the drawing room. 

At the sight of his beauty, he struggled to do little more than stare stupidly. Martin was sharp, intense, and spirited; in Jon's mind, he could only ever manage to be a woefully inadequate match for such a mind, and it was clear to him that Martin saw that as well. Together they sat on the chesterfield and spoke over tea—first of his visits, and then of the library addition plans. Martin was charming, clever, and torturously close, while Jon found himself struggling to keep up with him. 

When Martin leaned against his shoulder to look over the draft, he could smell so vividly the teasing scent of vanilla and amber on his neck, and Jon feared for the foolish things he might do if it continued for much longer; when Martin pulled away to set his cup of tea down, he felt both relief and loss. 

Alone in his room that night, Jon thought of Martin, and the things he might have done if he had remained close instead of moving. Would he have been able to resist the temptation to claim that exquisite mouth for himself? Or would he have pinned him down against the chesterfield, savoring the feel of the beautiful body trapped beneath his own while he tasted the sweetness of his lips? 

Would a kiss have been enough, or would Jon have needed more—and would Martin try to stop him? 

Like many nights before, Jon spilled himself into his hand, but he was left even more wanting than before. He had gotten what he had so desperately craved; he had spoken with Martin, spent time with his beauty, but it wasn't enough, not nearly enough. How much more would he need for it to be enough? 

As he lay in wait for sleep to take him, Jon did so with a sense of shame. This wasn't the sort of man he'd been raised to be; chasing after what belonged to another man, fantasizing night after night _about another man_, wasn't who he was meant to be. 

Even so, Jon couldn't stop. He could never stop, not now—not after he'd experienced something so perfect, so _divine_. He didn't know what to do. 

On a crisp autumn's morning, Jon was hatching idly in his personal sketchbook on the back porch with a cup of tea when he found his thoughts interrupted. 

"She's pretty, Jonathan," Georgina whispered, speaking suddenly from beside him. 

Jon jumped in his seat, hurrying to close the book. "G-Georgie! I, ah, didn't—I didn't realize you were there," he stammered, his face flushing. He hoped she hadn't been standing there watching him for terribly long. 

Georgie walked around him, plopping down to sit beside him. "Sometimes I like to watch you draw. You don't really do anything personal anymore—it's always buildings and remodels for clients? Which is a shame, because you were always so good at people and landscapes," she said, with a forlorn sigh. "Who is she?" 

"I, ah—w-who's who?" Jon asked dumbly. 

The knowing look on Georgina's face made him regret that choice of tactic instantly. 

"She's—_she's_, she's no one. I mean, she's… not real. I was only working from imagination, I—" 

At this, Georgina burst into laughter, and Jon fell silent with shame, cheeks flushed a deep red.

"_Jonathan_. Really?" The scorn on her face was clear. "I tell you _all_ of my secrets, but you can't even tell me about your paramour? I know it's true! You've been distant and strange for months, heading to bed as early as you can and throwing yourself into your work. You're seeing someone!" 

"It's not—I'm not _seeing_ anyone, Georgie, I swear," Jon pleaded. "... S-She is… Unattainable to me. I just..." He sighed, his words trailing off into nothing. 

Georgina huffed in disbelief. "Nonsense, Jon! You're a lovely man— you're educated, well-mannered, and even though you refuse to believe it, quite handsome. If she thinks she's too good for you, she doesn't deserve someone like you." She put a comforting hand on his shoulder; perhaps it would have provided him with some sense of relief if his heart didn't ache the way that it did. 

"Thank you, Georgie, really, but it's not like that."

Georgie's frown only deepened. With a groan, Jon leaned back against the bench. 

"She's… married," he confessed, his voice whisper-quiet. 

A silence hung between them for a moment, before it was broken by the sound of barely-stifled giggling. The sight of the wild grin spread across her face brought about yet another sigh, of a markedly more exasperated nature. 

"I'm so proud of you, Jon!" She cheered through her laughter. "I'd been hoping you'd finally do something risqué for years! You've been entirely too well-behaved, ever since we were young!" 

Jon swallowed nervously. Georgina had always teased him with lurid tales of her own escapades when they were adolescents, but he'd never shared anything so intimate with her. Needless to say, she knew nothing about his activities with the other men at Balliol, and even though he was certain she'd never judge him for it, he could never bear to tell her—but perhaps if he had, she'd have been proud of him sooner?

"It's not like that," Jon said, pouting only slightly. 

The pointed look that Georgina gave him filled him with regret once more; he should have known by now that there was little point in attempting to lie to her. 

"It's not _entirely_ like that," Jon amended. "She's beautiful. And clever. And… funny. And I'm making a fool of myself in order to see Ma—_her_, when I can, but I know it's for nothing. I'm not even entirely sure what it is that I want."

Jon brought a hand to his face and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "I feel very ardently for… _her_, and I know that I can't have her, but she's—she's my every waking thought."

"Hmm. Does she know how you feel about her?"

"I—I'm not sure. I haven't told her, of course, but—" Jon paused, trying to think of the best way to explain without being entirely truthful. "Because of some of my actions, I feel I've been… unsubtle."

"Where is the husband in all of this?" Georgina asked, tone somewhat incredulous. 

"Sometimes around, sometimes not?"

At this, Georgina gave him a loud, exaggerated hum. 

Jon continued, with a shake of his head. "He's a client, and a very busy man. I have… been to the home and been received, without his presence," Jon admitted with slow hesitation. 

"Jonathan!" She slapped his shoulder playfully, her excitement plain. "Listen, whether she knows or not? That's—oh, the _scanda_l!" 

If it made for a racy tale, Georgina was sure to love it. Unfortunately for Jon, he'd have much preferred his circumstances to be of a substantially tamer nature. 

Before he could dwell on it any further, Georgina leaned forward to stand, speaking dreamily as she did. "_I_ think you should be forward. Make your intentions known. An earnest married lady would never receive another man in the home without her husband present. I think she's communicating to you that she's… open." With this, she gave him a sly grin. 

Jon's gaze fell down to his lap. She wasn't wrong—Georgina never was about these sorts of things—but the details he'd left out surely precluded the accuracy of her judgement. Martin wasn't actually married, and he wasn't even a lady, so did the receiving of his visit mean a thing at all? Even more complicating of the matter was the fact that they'd already been as intimate with one another as two men could possibly be. 

Georgina made her way to the back door, but lingered at the threshold. "Either way, do something, Jon. Bring this thing to a conclusion. You can't just pine away for the rest of your life, that's not good. You make yourself known and see where this thing takes you, or it goes nowhere and you at least get to move on. There's lots of girls out there. Don't waste away all for the sake of one," she said, before going back inside. 

Alone again, Jon found himself opening his sketchbook back to his previous place, the many drawn faces of his beauty staring back at him. Despite his confusion, despite the strangeness of the situation he found himself in, his heart only raced with longing.

He would feel better if he only saw Martin again, wouldn't he? 

It was perhaps overly hasty when Jon made a visit to the manor the following week, under the guise of speaking with Elias about another requested project. Escorted to the drawing room as he had been so many times before, the sight of Martin inside upon his arrival made this occasion markedly different. 

Wearing an ivory cotton gown patterned with pink roses and hemmed with lace, his beauty lingered by the bookshelves. In his hands, Jon noticed he held the damaged volume of Keats, idly sweeping the cover of dust. 

"Are these books yours?" Jon asked, upon his approach. He looked up to the shelf, remembering the distinct volumes of poetry, fairytale and myth that had struck him as so uncharacteristic of Elias when he'd first taken note of the collection. 

Martin's eyes didn't rise to meet him, but Jon could see the soft, coy smile on his face. "You could say that, I suppose. Elias certainly doesn't read them. Do you know your poets, Mr. Sims?" He asked. 

Jon cleared his throat with a feeling of awkwardness. "Not as well as I could, I admit. No one particularly recent, at the very least," he confessed. 

It was possibly something about his tone when he spoke that caused Martin to glance up at him at last, a wry look in his eyes. "What sort of works do _you_ fancy, then?" 

Jon stammered. "I, ah—I lean more towards Shakespeare, Marlowe, that sort."

At this, Martin smirked, letting out a soft laugh as he brought the volume of Keats to his chest. "The dramatics, then. Very… _respectable_ of you," Martin teased. 

Jon raised a brow, grinning incredulously. "Is that so bad?"

"_Mmm_. They were talented men, sure, but I like the sense of… emotion inherent to Romanticism."

Jon's own laughter came abruptly. Martin pouted. 

"What's funny, Mr. Sims?" 

"I wouldn't have assumed you a romantic, I suppose."

"_Hmph_. I bet you only read things that are written in Latin."

Jon's opened his mouth, intending to retort, but he only managed to gape stupidly. "... That isn't fair," he uttered, finally. His beauty was not especially incorrect in his judgement. 

"But I'm right, aren't I?" Martin taunted, pointing the volume of Keats at him as if to scold him with it. 

It only seemed reasonable then for Jon to take the volume—gently—from the lovely hand that waved it. Suppressing his smile, he slipped the collection of Keats into a slot on the very highest shelf, where he knew his admittedly small beauty would be unable to reach it without aid, and began to walk away. 

"So that's how it is, then?" Martin called out from behind him. Jon's laughing smile came over him in earnest, then. 

"Jon!" A third voice called out to him from the drawing room's entryway, nearly startling him. When he looked up, he was greeted by the sight of Elias; Jon couldn't help but think that the minister had something like a pleased gleam in his eyes. 

"Glad you're here! Come with me a moment, I've something to discuss with you."

As he walked out into the hall, Jon peered back over his shoulder, and couldn't help but notice the curious way Martin watched him as he left. 

Elias's private study was dressed in shades of crimson and gold, illuminated only by the filtered light that crept in from beyond the heavy drapes. Jon admired the minister's possessions, which were on display like trophies, with mouth agape: photographs, paintings, and framed certificates that lined the walls, marble sculpted busts, a small area for seating guests outfitted with ornately carved walnut chairs, and a series of several additional bookshelves filled to capacity with a volume that matched the collection in the drawing room. 

Jon sat with Elias in a chair beside his wooton desk, the compartments stuffed full of papers and documents. He watched as the minister, with a groan, lit the nearby lamp with a swift turn of the valve. He couldn't help but find it strange that he didn't simply draw the curtains. With a quick, embarrassed laugh, Elias briefly attempted to tidy the contents of the desk.

"Please excuse the state of things, my friend. When I work late into the evening, I have a tendency to leave things in disarray—and I prefer to have this room tended by the staff less than the rest of the house," Elias said, struggling to jam a handful of written notes into an already crammed slot of the desk. 

Jon flustered, and hurriedly raised his hands in protest. "It's your house! You need not offer me any apologies!" 

Elias extended him a small, soft smile as he brushed a few errant silver-blonde strands from his brow. "You really are too kind," he uttered. "I know you've come to discuss the gardens, but I've a matter more urgent to broach with you. I'm afraid I'll ask of you far too much."

"I certainly doubt it. You've been very kind to me for all these months. It's only right that I do something to repay you," Jon said, solemn and earnest. 

Elias laughed again. "You're so serious, Jon." The minister looked into his eyes intently; Jon swallowed. "Recent business calls me away to Berlin. For how long, I'm not terribly sure. At most, I believe I'll be away for a little over a month. Understandably, this puts my affairs here into quite a state of unrest—I've a home and staff that need attending to, and my absence creates the likelihood of neglect."

"Absolutely. To be gone for an indeterminate amount of time like that, I can only imagine, is quite an inconvenience when you have substantial responsibility at home."

Almost hesitantly, Elias took his hand between his own. Jon could feel the warmth spread through his cheeks. 

"I have great respect for you, Jon—and I trust you, which I cannot truly say of anyone else, even my other confidantes. I would very much appreciate it if you could manage affairs at the house in my stead," Elias said. 

With this, his fingers wrapped around Jon's and gently squeezed. 

"I would hope it goes without saying that, if you were to do this for me, you would be compensated greatly for your time and efforts. I'm well aware that you have a business to attend to. You'd be more than welcome to work from my home, and my man Gerard would be available to cab you to any and all business appointments you may have."

"Elias, I'm—" Jon stammered. "I'm very humbled by your words. I could only hope to be truly deserving of them. That is, I—I could, I could do my very best for you. I've never—" 

A broad smile came over Elias's handsome face, and Jon felt an ease instantly wash over him. "It's hardly difficult. There's no special training for these sorts of things. You're intelligent beyond your years, Jon, and I'm more than confident that you will take on this task with nothing other than success resulting."

Try as he might to focus on the minister's praise, Jon's thoughts had already shifted to his beauty: he would be alone with Martin for several weeks, uninhibited by Peter, or Simon, or even Elias. For several weeks, he would need no elaborate excuse to call upon him, neither would he be called away or interrupted for any business that wasn't his own. It was more than he could have conjured in even his most lurid fantasies. 

A smile came over Jon's face broad enough to match the one that Elias gave him, and he hoped it would look like it was because of the minister's praise. 

"When do you depart for Berlin?" 

"Tomorrow afternoon."

The afternoon of Elias's departure came, and while the notice had been short, the intensity of Jon's anticipation seemed to bring the time of his wait to an arduous crawl. Elias walked Jon through the house and they spoke of daily routines and duties, stopping only to reintroduce him to the staff. As discussions came to a close, they arrived back at the entryway of the manor where the carriage—and Martin—waited. 

Blue-brown eyes fluttered up to meet his own, and Jon wondered if it was only in his imagination that Martin's gaze had skipped over Elias completely. His beauty stood, impossibly lovely as ever, in a lavender-pink shirtwaist and pristine white skirt, brass-blonde curls radiant in the sun.

Elias stopped before Martin, greeting him with a smile. "I hope it goes without saying that you will behave yourself for Mr. Sims."

With a snort, Martin turned his face away from Elias, shooting Jon a deliberate glance. "I think Jon and I will get along famously while you're away," he said. Jon wondered if the undercurrent of aggression in Martin's tone was also a figment of his imagination. 

"You're lucky, you know. I could have saddled you with Peter instead."

At this, a flash of clear revulsion washed over Martin's features. 

"Peter's a fine friend, but when left to his own devices, he has a tendency to mishandle things that are beautiful," Elias said, voice slightly raised—these words were for him, Jon realized—and he watched as the minister brought his hand up to cradle Martin's face, thumb grazing his lower lip. "I trust you to treat Mrs. Bouchard kindly while I'm away. He's a very needy little thing, doesn't do too well with neglect."

Jon noticed that Martin's eyes had clenched shut. When Elias removed his hand, his beauty seemed to recoil, stepping back and away. Elias chuckled, and made his way to the carriage. 

From the still-open carriage door, Elias called out: "It's easy to get lonely in a big house. Do keep one another company, won't you?" 

Once the door shut, the carriage was off, and shortly after, entirely out of sight. 

Jon stood there for a moment, dwelling on the minister's words until a lavender blur stormed past him, taking him from his thoughts. He turned to see Martin making for the door and hurried to follow. 

"Wait!" Jon called out. 

He didn’t realize what he'd done until Martin staggered, abruptly stopped in his place. His beauty's wrist was small, easily encircled within one of Jon's own; at once, he released him, shame washing over him. When Jon finally gathered the strength to look at Martin, he found that his expression was unreadable. 

"I—T-that is, I mean to ask—are you well?" 

Jon watched as Martin's gaze fell wordlessly to where he'd grabbed him. Slowly, his beauty reached forward, taking his hand into a tentative hold. 

"I'm fine, Mr. Sims. I'm well," Martin said, in a voice that was sad and soft. "You've surely some work to attend to, don't you?"

He gave Jon's knuckles a gentle stroke with his thumb before releasing him, and Jon allowed him to let go without wishing for more. 

"Y-yes, of course," Jon stammered. "Let me know if—if there's anything you need of me."

Jon stood and watched, feeling foolish as his beauty disappeared into the house. 

He saw Martin scarcely in the three days that followed and, certain he'd committed a grievous wrong to result in this, Jon busied himself with his work and his clients. Attempts to ask the servant Timothy about Martin's whereabouts were met with a response that Jon couldn't help but interpret as suspicious—and reasonably so, he thought. He wondered how many times Elias's guests had found themselves as smitten as he, clamoring desperately for a private visit with the beautiful Mrs. Bouchard. 

Still, Jon was firm in his resolve; he decided he would seize the next opportunity to present itself, hoping to make a show of his honest nature. He found his next chance in the mid-afternoon that followed; walking into the drawing room, Jon saw Martin at last, sat at a table fussing diligently over an arrangement of flowers. As he approached, his beauty spared him not even a cursory glance. 

"That's lovely," Jon said softly, careful not to startle Martin as he observed his work. Apricot rose blooms and stems of blue salvia were softened by a fill of white snapdragons and a feathery spray of ferns, and Martin tended to them with a visibly scrutinizing eye. 

Martin scoffed. "They're flowers, Jon. Of course they're lovely. It's in their nature to be beautiful."

"Maybe, but I think you've helped to bring out the best in them." When Martin said nothing in return, he asked, "Do you like working with flowers?" 

"It's something to do, at least," Martin said, setting his pair of sterling pruning blades down onto the table. "Just a little something to pass the time. I can't say I run into many opportunities for excitement."

Jon took a deep breath, bracing himself for what he intended to say next. "Could I ask you something? W-when you're finished, that is, I don't mean to interrupt."

"I'm finished now." Martin made a show of dusting off his lovely, fair hands, and pulled himself away from the table. "What do you need from me, Jon?" 

"I—Elias has requested some work on the gardens. Noticing that you seem to work with the flowers, I was wondering if—if you'd like to, to walk with me?" Jon asked. He could already feel his face flushing with embarrassment. "I could use the company, and I'm open to… to any ideas you might have!" 

For a moment, Martin said nothing, only eyeing him with silent curiosity. Jon swallowed, determined not to look away, lest he show his unease. Finally, Martin gave him a soft, coy smile, and his unease faded into a silly fluttering in his chest. 

"Hmm. Right now? I _suppose_ I could walk with you, if you're open to suggestions. Let me fetch my parasol."

It was a fine day for a stroll about the gardens; a gentle breeze rolled through the air while the bright sun faded in and out between soft white clouds. The two walked alongside one another, a fair distance between them while Martin twirled an open parasol of white chiffon between his nimble fingers. 

"We're well into September. Why the parasol?" Jon asked, smiling with endearment. 

Martin pouted. "The sun's still out, even when it's cool. I don't want my freckles to darken." 

Jon blinked. "Would that be so terrible?" He was more than fond of the golden-brown dusting of freckles that graced his beauty's full, soft cheeks. The notion that he'd try to lessen their splendor didn't sit well with him.

"Don't tease me, Jon," Martin scolded, flicking his arm swiftly with two fingers. "You're much too old to act like a little boy."

Jon rubbed at the afflicted spot with a pained hum. "You're one to talk," he grumbled. 

Martin closed the gap between them, pressing his side against Jon's as he hooked his arm with his. "Tell me about your glamorous garden plans, Mr. Sims."

"Well, I suppose I'm—I'm not sure. I've never really done anything like a garden before, especially involving one already so well established. I believe Elias mentioned a desire for a water feature," Jon said. 

He did his best to keep his eyes from wandering down overmuch to where their sides connected; it was hard enough for him to quell the excitement that resulted from his beauty's touch. 

Martin hummed thoughtfully. "Have you seen much of the grounds?" 

"N-not especially. My knowledge only extends as far as what I saw in the summer, at the garden party." 

It felt dishonest to say; it was not incorrect, but Jon always struggled to recall any details of the garden party that didn't concern his first sight of Martin. 

When Martin came to a stop, so did he, and he noticed now that they'd arrived at a clearing that would lead into the wood of ancient oaks that took up so many acres on the estate property. 

"The woods are lovely this time of year. Would you like to see them?" Martin asked, tilting his head thoughtfully as he folded his parasol closed. "Perhaps you'll find something in them to… inspire you." 

With this, Martin untangled from Jon, and began to wander into the wood with all the charm and guile of a forest nymph. 

"I'm not opposed—" Jon started, pace quickening somewhat frantically as he followed, before a far more pressing thought came to him. "W-will you be safe, dressed as you are? I wouldn't want you to slip or fall on my watch."

Martin kept his lead with ease, and Jon could hear him chuckle from ahead of him. "Oh, Jon, you need not concern yourself with my state of dress." 

His beauty turned around, with his arms behind him as he walked backwards. "... Unless you'd like to, of course," he said, before turning back around and continuing onward. 

Heat rose in his cheeks as Jon considered the meaning of his words; were they truly as suggestive as his mind hoped them to be, he wondered? No, he insisted, as he followed Martin further into the wood of oaks, silent except for the music of songbirds and the crunch of the fallen foliage beneath their feet. His eyes remained fixed on Martin, who swayed beautifully as he maintained his lead.

"So—what is it that you want?" Martin asked. 

Jon stopped then, frozen in place. "I'm sorry?" His brows quirked with confusion. 

He could hear Martin laugh softly before turning as he leaned against the trunk of an oak. "I mean, what are you playing at? What is it you're hoping to get?" He asked again, eyeing Jon as critically as he might a floral arrangement. 

Jon stammered, unsure of how to respond. "I—" 

At this, Martin shook his head, letting out a disbelieving breath before playing his tongue across his upper lip. "If you want, well—I know you want it, Jon," Martin said, lips curving up into a knowing smirk. He allowed the folded parasol to slip from his grasp and fall to the ground. "You don't need to take me on garden walks or chat me up. Just take it. That's how this works." 

He lifted his skirts gently, exposing the bare, pale legs hidden beneath. 

"That—that isn't what I'm—" 

The sound of Martin's laughter brought Jon's speech to a halt. His eyes dropped to the ground, embarrassment swelling in him. 

He could hear Martin speak again, in a voice that was smaller, bordering on hesitant. "You don't have to lie about it, Jon. It's obvious, you know? You've made so many excuses to visit. I know what you're after, just—just be honest about it."

Reaching a decision, Jon approached him until he stood close. Reaching for Martin's hands, he took them into his own, so l his skirts dropped back down to cover him once more. "You misunderstand, I—I don't want anything you wouldn't give freely," he pleaded, voice hushed and earnest. As he looked down, blue-brown eyes met his own dubiously. 

Martin leaned closer, bringing his hands up to smooth down the sides of his arms. "But you do want to _play_ with me, don't you?" He asked.

"I think you're lovely," Jon confessed with a smile. "But I didn't—I'm not luring you here under false pretenses. I… I like to walk with you. I enjoy your company."

When Martin let out another laugh, this time laced with cruelty, his smile fell into a frown. 

"That's ridiculous, Jon."

"Why?" 

Martin's fingers wrapped tightly into the fabric of Jon's waistcoat, his face twisted in anger. 

"Just—ugh, just, _stop it_ with the gentleman act, alright?" Martin snapped, shoving Jon back.

Nearly tripping over some errant debris on the ground, Jon's eyes narrowed as he stepped closer again. "It's _not_ an act—" 

Martin's hands flew to his own face, covering his eyes; when he let out a frustrated huff, Jon paused, taking a breath before starting again more softly. "_Martin_."

"Th-This was a mistake," Martin muttered, voice low and dark. He pulled himself from the tree to walk away, but was quickly halted by a hand on his forearm. 

"Martin—" Jon pleaded. 

"Let go of me," Martin hissed. 

At this, Jon released him regretfully; rather than leave as he'd anticipated, Martin lingered, eyes fixed on him in a cold stare. 

"Please, just—listen to me, please—" 

With a growl, Martin began to slap and smack at his hands and chest; any growing frustration that Jon had felt was replaced with the desire to soothe him somehow, if he could. Jon reached out for Martin's hands, hoping to still his lashings. 

It wasn't difficult to keep his anger at bay. Martin was smaller and much weaker, so Jon was able to keep his arms stable—until he began to kick at his legs. Remembering Martin's state of dress and the nature of the ground beneath them, a quick panic shot through him; Jon found his fears quickly realized when the uneven ground slipped out from beneath his beauty's heeled feet. 

Without a better idea, Jon shoved him hard back against the oak, pinning his shoulders with his hands. Martin let out a sharp, pained gasp that seemed to take all of his air with him. 

"A-Are you alright?" Jon whispered breathlessly. "I'm sorry, I only…" 

He trailed off into silence, trapped under Martin's sad, sweet gaze. He had ceased his struggling and seemed on the verge of tears, freckled face flushed from his exertion. An errant curl had fallen loose from its styling and fallen into his face; shakily, Jon removed a hand from one of Martin's shoulders to tuck the strand behind his ear before cupping his cheek, stroking it lovingly with a thumb. 

When Martin reached up for his hand, Jon expected him to remove it in a fury. Instead, he placed his own hand gently on top of his and held it there, fingertips smoothing over his knuckles. 

Jon hadn't planned to kiss him, or even thought of it at all; he could only conclude that something subconscious—something animalistic—had decided that he would, simply and without thinking. He captured Martin's mouth in a kiss, and his beauty returned his affection with an eager keening in his throat. Releasing his other shoulder at last, Jon cradled his face in his hands; when Martin threw his arms around his neck, Jon pressed him against the trunk of the oak, their bodies flush together.

He tasted every bit as sweet as Jon imagined he would, if not more. Breathing became secondary to the exploration of his beauty's soft mouth, of the tongue that twined with his own and the impossibly perfect, needful noises that he pulled from him with every touch. Martin's hands dropped from Jon's neck and fell to his waist, untucking and slipping beneath his shirt to feel the skin of his back. 

As their hands continued to roam and wander, slow, tentative touches became more wanton with urgency. In the back of Jon's mind, there was an awareness that they could be heard or even seen, that this hadn't been what he'd set out to do when he invited Martin to walk with him that afternoon, but those things mattered little compared to his beauty's pleasure. Jon broke their kiss to mouth at the skin of his throat, stiffened cocks rutting together through their clothes with the rolling of their hips.

"_Mmmplease_," Martin whimpered—and how could Jon deny him? He reached for the backs of Martin's thighs and lifted, to which Martin readily wrapped himself around his waist. Jon ground himself deliberately against his prick, and Martin let out an agonized whine before whispering against his cheek, "If you don't fuck me _right now_—" 

He'd never unbuttoned his trousers so fast before in his entire life; in what seemed like only seconds, they were bunched around his thighs and his cock was free, standing in wait as Martin maneuvered his hips to give him better access. At a loss for lubrication, Jon found himself relieved when Martin conjured a small, familiar phial of oil from one of the concealed pockets of his skirts and pressed it into his palm. He readily uncorked the phial and poured an ample quantity of the thick, shimmering fluid into his hand. Giving himself a stroke, he slicked his length wet before reengaging with his beauty. He claimed Martin's lips again with a kiss, positioning himself against his hole. 

As the tip of Jon's cock breached him, Martin clutched him desperately, crying out against his mouth; he was just as warm and tight as he remembered. Jon buried himself to the hilt and stayed there for a moment, relishing the feel of his beauty clamped down around him before he began to thrust. He started slowly, gently, until they found their pace; as Martin's moans grew harsher and held him tighter, Jon fucked him harder, keen to satisfy his need. 

"Ah!—_That'ssogood_," Martin panted between the breaking of a kiss. "_Fuckmefuckmefuck_—"

Whatever strength it would have taken to deny him, Jon knew he didn't have it. The world around them ceased to exist; he thought of only Martin as they fucked and kissed against the oak, the sounds of their lovemaking piercing through the silence of the woods. It was only when his beauty let out a sharp cry, spasming with release that he allowed himself to follow suit. Jon came deep inside of him, planting kisses into Martin's hair as his pleasure washed over him. 

After, they remained against the tree in a tangle of warm, sticky limbs, Jon's length still inside of him as he tried to catch his breath. Martin wrapped his arms around his shoulders, nuzzling him affectionately. 

"MmmJon," Martin slurred, drunk from orgasm. "Don't let me fall."

"I've got you," Jon assured him with a gentle smile—despite the wobbling of his boneless legs beneath them. 

Martin was silent for a moment before he began again, mumbling quietly. "... I'm sorry. For pushing you."

Jon's brows furrowed in confusion, until he at last remembered the altercation that proceeded the sex, and he shushed him softly. "It's alright."

"...And I think you're lovely too," Martin added, burying his face into Jon's shirt. "... Please don't let go."

"I won't," Jon whispered. "Not Ever."


	5. DISCONTINUED

It's probably obvious by now but I'm discontinuing this fic as I'm no longer very interested in TMA. I considered deleting, but I didn't like the feel of that, so after some googling re: proper procedure, I decided to add this note and edit the title/summary.

Apologies to the folk who left kudos and praise.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is an AU in which Elias is a man of great influence and has used it to blackmail/indenture several people, including Martin, who is made to play the role of his wife and effective sex slave.
> 
> The fic tags are not conclusive and will be updated as new elements appear. 
> 
> Content Warnings: dubcon, noncon sex, noncon drugging, forced feminization, humiliation, group sex, voyeurism. 
> 
> Thanks very much to cuttooth for helping me with edits, and to Discord friends for enabling my pornographic debut!


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